Reality of a Mirage
by KoKD94123
Summary: An injured eighteen year old stumbles onto a traffic-jammed street in the heart of London...with no clue of what trouble she's gotten herself into. Spans over Series 1 and Series 2.
1. Prologue

**Heyo, people. Usually, I do fanfic for other fandom, but I decided to try a Sherlock fanfic since I was in the mood and...ahem, Moffat likes to keep us waiting till 2013...UGH, MOFFAT! **

**Anyways. As I watched (and thoroughly enjoyed) Sherlock, I noticed a lot of story points left untouched or inconspicuous (not that Moffat and the team are ignorant) and began to ask questions like 'So Moriarty had been preparing for Sherlock's suicide since the beginning of the series?' (For this theory, a close-up on 'Richard Brooke's' resume shows that the photograph was taken on 2010. John doesn't see the resume until around June 2011 according to lyrical sky's Sherlock timeline.) Plus, I haven't found (as far as I know) any back stories in Sherlock fandom. Thus, this story was born. Some things of the original plot are better left as is, but I want to address some matters of the series' story. **

**As a Sherlock fan, I will do my best to be faithful to the main plot and timeline. But the most difficult challenge in approaching this story is the timeline. One, it's complicated, and two, it's faulty and inconsistent. I'm serious; check out lyrical sky's outline. (The author's done the best to make it accurate as possible using the show's dates displayed on screen, mentioned by characters, and used on the blogs.)**

**So I hope you enjoy this fanfic...Okay, I'll shut up now so you can read already.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own BBC's Sherlock. Amazing writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss do. I'm just playing with the story and its characters. Original characters are mine.

Author's Note: DI Dimmock was never given a first name (correct me if I'm wrong) so I gave him one. Plus, I made him younger and nicer. ;) While in "The Blind Banker", he made the impression that he was a sour character, I was intrigued by him and decided to use him since he doesn't have much background.

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

January 25, 2011

The CIA agent had yet to make a routine call to report, and he was growing nervous. He sighed as he glanced at his watch again. 8:36 PM. It was almost an hour past the appointed time, and here he was getting edgy. More than he should be letting on.

No, he 'minor' British government official Mycroft Holmes had a right to be anxious. This was an operation that he, the undercover agent, or anyone else involved, could _not_ afford to ruin because this operation would affect-no, impact the whole lot. Make one blunder, and everything both the British and US governments had planned for months would be a lost effort to weed _him _out.

Even the SIS agent he sent to keep an eye on the agent hadn't reported anything himself either. Anthea would've informed him. But of course, you couldn't depend on your own spies, Mycroft thought spitefully.

In silent frustration, he curled his right hand into a fist as he paced in the Holmes estate living room, the firelight dancing on the walls and him.

When Great Britain requested aid from her ally, America replied by sending a small group of seven CIA agents. The best of the best, they claimed. Five men and two women.

And of all the bloody things, why did the Americans have to send two _female_ CIA undercover agents to do their side of the work? Yes, they were declared to be paramount for such a delicate task, two of the élite according to the provided information files that were lying on the nearby dining table.

_As if_, he had inwardly rolled his eyes when he first read the papers.

Tonight, one of the two female agents was working for Mycroft, promising to report in as soon as her mission was complete. She had yet to call in, and he knew that she was too diligent to be late.

One tedious conversation with her may have erased some doubt (and he had to give her some credit for having brains), but one could never be sure. No, he knew this certain agent wasn't careless. She was very meticulous when it came to details and maybe a little too eager about missions than he would've liked. After all, she was only in her early twenties, a fact that made him skeptical of her talent.

But after sending her on many successful missions, Mycroft realized that she had truly lived up to her name. No wonder the Americans took pride in her.

So there was possibly no way Moriarty or any of his cronies got a hold of the agent. She was too cautious for that. There was no way unless…

When he heard the text alert and pulled out his phone to read the message, his fears were confirmed. Operation Mastermind had made one error –its first and its last- and his whole world took a downward spiral from there.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Closing the door behind her with her right foot and balancing grocery bags in her arms, transfer and part-time student Robyn Lawrence flipped the light switch and groaned, assessing the state of the apartment. The jungle-of-a-mess-apartment.

Even with attempts to keep her side of the shared abode clean, her best friend's messy habits (contradictory to the conscientious behavior at work) had rubbed off on Robyn. Sometimes, she swore that she would beat some sense into her roommate's brain but never followed through with her decision.

After she set the grocery bags on the kitchen countertop, she opened one of the cabinets to pour herself a glass of water. On the refrigerator, Robyn found a sticky note with her friend's writing.

'At bookstore. Will be home later,' it read.

She checked the clock above the sink's window. 8:36 PM. Said best friend had gone out to run an 'errand' for her 'employer editor' meaning she wouldn't be finished till past 9. "Might as well conjure up something for her," she told herself.

Her roommate occasionally skipped meals out of stress or anxiety, and Robyn knew that this particular 'errand' would drain her instantly. At the same time, Robyn worried for her best friend. Not just for her health but also her safety. But who was she kidding? The bookstore jobs and college studies were just cover-ups; the danger was what she and Robyn really did: spying on a criminal. And not just any criminal for that matter.

She put the groceries in the proper places before finishing the last of the water in one gulp, listening to the silence while her thoughts dwelt on the past year. From the moment they and a small group of five others had received their assignment, their lives changed. Other than moving from Walden, New York to London, England, every day and every movement was crucial to the originally British operation. Until they recently learned of the criminal branches in the US connected to the ones in the UK. Then surveillance intensified, making the American group with the help of a couple SIS agents work double time.

And that didn't lessen homework and projects at college. True, Robyn and her best friend were studying what they enjoyed (English), but the studies only added to their burden.

As soon as she remembered the literature essay due for the next day, her cell phone went off in her purse. Robyn frowned. Maybe it was her boyfriend; but his shift was nearly over by now, and he wouldn't call for casual conversation. He liked face-to-face discussions. She thought of her best friend again but reminded herself that she was working as well. Then her friend's boyfriend (her roommate wouldn't admit that) came to mind, but he was working as well.

Really, anyone that called her rarely did so to have a nice chat.

She fished out her phone from her purse, pressed the answer button, and raised it to her ear. "Hello?"

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Detective Inspector Timothy Dimmock wearily ran a hand through his hair and then rubbed his eyes. And it was only 8:36 PM on his watch. He was working overtime tonight but making no progress. Neither was DI Lestrade (the main investigator of the poison suicide cases) who had asked the younger man for help.

Thanks to his new girlfriend and her best friend's 'assistance,' Timothy had been promoted to a detective inspector in Scotland Yard, after having first met the two at a police conference about a scandal. He wondered how the young women discovered the evidence (papers proving the suspect as the culprit) for the last major case (he never got any straight answer when he asked), yet he never questioned their means of 'help.' After that, they left him to his work to avoid getting into trouble with police procedures but still kept in constant contact.

And they were Americans to top it all off, studying for an English major. Of all the places to find a university, they chose to come to England. Timothy just decided that it was preference and nothing else.

The office was half full, some working the night shift and others overtime like him. Phones rang, copiers hummed, voices echoed the room, shoes padded along the stiff carpet, and fluorescent lamps in the ceiling cast a pale light.

Puffing out his cheeks and sighing through his teeth, he leaned back in his black office chair and sent a death glare at his desk with his laptop running and the paperwork heaping next to it. Not that he hated his recent promotion. Just the stupid paperwork.

Paperwork on two suicide cases. Suicides didn't get much attention, but these two did because both victims were in nearly identical situations. Both had no obvious reason to take their own lives, both self-administered the same poison, and both died in random locations. The first: a well-paid business man discovered in an empty but new office building. And the second: a well-going teenage boy found in a school gymnasium.

Whether suspicious or not, a suicide was a suicide. End of story. Until Lestrade decided to take the two suicide cases. And when Timothy even admitted the deaths strange, welcome overtime shift. He just _had _to be dragged into this pointless investigation, didn't he?

An officer came barreling into the large office area, making his way to Timothy's desk. "Sir, we have an incident at Aldersgate Street."

He glanced up at the man with tired eyes. "And?"

"I think it'll interest you greatly."

The night just seemed to grow longer.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

CIA Undercover Agent Jason Colles silently stared at the coffee cup in his hand as he sat at a table in the corner next to the Criterion café entrance. His shift at the café was over, but he didn't bother to return to his apartment and had ordered a latte now too cold to enjoy. Next to his drink, chocolate-glazed biscotti on a paper plate were left untouched.

He didn't believe in superstition, but he couldn't get rid of the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. A _very _bad feeling. And it had to do with _her. _

Not that he thought of her romantically. Man, they butted heads during field work, sometimes even getting at each other's throats (one time, literally with Robyn trying to get into the middle.) Everyone in the traveling CIA group teased that she and Jason were denying their love for each other and in the beginning of the British operation, he wondered if she was really denying that she liked him as he grew to admire her. But she soon made it obvious that she wasn't even interested in a relationship.

A few months ago, they had settled the fact that their relationship was much like that of a brother and sister's, and Jason was pleased with that; it had cleared up his uncertain feelings about her and hers about him. Now that she was actually dating (a British detective inspector too) after much argument between her and the rest of the group, she was trying to get him to notice Robyn for a change which was amusing to him.

_Her. _That was all he could think of. Why did he have the feeling that something was wrong? He wanted to check on her, give her a call, but his digital watch said 8:36 PM. He knew she was busy tonight until 9 so she wouldn't be able to answer right away. An urge inside him said to ring her anyways. Oh, how he wished he was wrong in doubting.

And this operation was critical both to the United States and Great Britain. As stressed by British government official Mycroft Holmes, everything relied on this certain operation: expose a certain criminal. An internationally powerful criminal. Failure to succeed would end in political and financial disaster.

"Oi, Jason!" called a voice from behind the counter.

His neck craned to the speaker. It was Peter.

"You all right, man? You're looking a little pale."

"N-no, I'm fine. Just tired."

The college student shrugged but sent a skeptical look. "Suit yourself. And make sure you get home."

Jason waved a careless hand and turned his attention to the outside world beyond the café window. "Will do." But he just remained there, scanning the street as if hoping to spot her. Of course, she wouldn't be out there. He just couldn't stop thinking about _her…_

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Traffic had stopped all together. A car horn blared into her eardrums, leaving a consistent ringing in her hearing.

"Oi! Get out of the—"

_Yeah, good. Very good._

What…

_You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'_

"Move it, you—"

_You see what I mean?_

A dazed Alex Traherne was standing in the middle of a street when a thousand voices violently assaulted her thoughts, a headache pounding her brain like a thousand hammers. She frowned. She'd heard these voices before...somewhere…

_Okay, you've got questions._

But what on earth was she doing there? How did she get there all of a sudden? She thought she was—

_**The only one in the world.**_

She cringed and doubled over as if the volume of the voices had turned up to full blast. It hurt too much to wonder where she'd heard the voices before. What was worse was that the voices in her head and the sounds of the real world blended too well. Sometimes, she couldn't tell the difference_. _No, insane. She was going insane.

_That was amazing._

"Watch it, love—"

_Your back! Now, please!_

"Get away from the—"

_We can't giggle at a crime scene._

"You're blocking the road—"

_Oh, I wouldn't say that._

There was too much city noise. Horns, shouts (curses too, unfortunately), and car engines amplified the headache, and she was just staggering around, a disoriented jaywalker.

_You took your time._

"Lady, move it! Traffic's—"

_Didn't notice I'd gone out then?_

Alex tried to move to safety, but her legs felt like jelly; her body wouldn't coöperate with her brain, no matter how many times she commanded myself to budge.

_That's why they think they're safe._

"What are doin' out—"

_You're not serious._

"—something wrong?"

_Hold on._

A large hand seized her left shoulder, and an arm wrapped around her waist. And someone -somehow- managed to drag her back to sidewalk before—

_I'm not saying it again._

Tears sprang to her eyes, and another strangled groan escaped from her lips when a wave of nausea hit her followed by a sharp pain in the head. The migraine…it was getting worse…

_Not much to go on._

"Make it stop," she whimpered.

_You've been a while._

"Mummy, she's bleeding—"

_They're giving me an ASBO!_

"She's passing out! Get a hold of her—"

_You remember the pattern?_

She didn't remember when her knees hit the concrete. The nice cool concrete…warm hands against her icy skin…

_I have high hopes for you._

"Move, people, move. Make room—"

_Everyone says you're the best._

She found herself half-lying on the ground. Someone supported her from behind, and another was on her right. A woolen jacket was draped over her legs. And why did her right arm feel wet and sticky? The throbbing seemed to originate from there…

_Not worth my time._

"Call 999! She's going into shock—"

_Did you like it?_

Blood. Lots of it seeping from a gash that ran from the tip of the shoulder down to the elbow. Whatever had caused the cut had also ripped through her orange blouse sleeve. Her arm felt like it was on fire. The sight of it sent bile to Alex's throat, and her left hand flew to the good part of her right shoulder. But clutching didn't stop the sensation of burning.

_Top secret?_

It took her a minute later to realize that she was hyperventilating, sobbing and gasping for air. Even with adrenaline pumping her systems, she couldn't think straight.

_It's a warning._

"Come on, stay with us—"

_Why are you doing this?_

"Who did this to you—"

_What d'you mean?_

All Alex could comprehend was that the world was disorienting. Funny, this was nothing like Wonderland or some other magical (fictional) place. This didn't even compare to those dramatic 'injury' scenes on movies. This was serious. And what a sight she must've been. A senseless young woman wheezing and probably bleeding to death…

_I've disappointed you._

"Stay with us, love. You're going—"

_So nice to have a proper chat._

She didn't want to stay awake. She wanted to go to sleep, shut out the world and the voices and let herself collapse into nothingness.

_You've got the rest of your life._

It must've been ages until proper help arrived at last, but the wailing sirens, barking policemen, and robotic-sounding paramedics added to the migraine.

_Oh, apparently yes._

"Back up, back up. Come on now—"

_I had bad days._

"We're here, miss. Are you—"

_Does that make me special?_

Leave me alone, she tried to say, but…

_I know when it's in my hands._

She'd become numb. The pain was gone, Alex noticed, but she no longer could move her lips or respond in any way as tentative but expert hands handled her. It was as if all sense of touch had left her.

_What are you talking about?_

"We're losing her—"

_You're right._

"Blood pressure's dropping—"

_Sorry about dinner._

"Get her in the—"

_Look at me._

She thought they were lifting her into the ambulance. Someone had placed a sort of bandage on her arm. Lights were glaring from above, and faces were hovering over hers. Alex felt helpless; she hated feeling helpless like this. She never thought she would find herself in the back of an ambulance.

_Get me some._

"—family members, friends—"

_But I know what I saw._

"Condition's—"

_I don't do that._

"…—fusion."

_You're being funny now._

Then it was the hearing. Mixed reactions of horror, annoyance, and confusion that bubbled from witnessing crowds were silenced. Noises of the city dimmed to nothing. Lips moved but emanated no sound. But she could still hear the voices in her head.

_Tell me what you're seeing._

She just wanted to escape this misery she was in.

_They're coming back._

She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

_You look sad._

She just wanted to rest.

_You know what my point is._

That was all she wanted.

_I'm sorry._

Silence.

_Alone protects me._

Blissful silence.

_No. Friends protect people._

Blood loss and exhaustion eventually took its toll on her. Black dots danced in her vision, leading her into a dream of oblivion, and she knew no more.

_Just stop it. Stop _this…

And the voices stopped all together. Finally.

* * *

**Oooh, nooo! What happened to her? What's Mycroft gonna do now? Where's Moriarty and Sherlock in this? What's next? Till next time...**


	2. Recollection

**Before you read and protest and ask where the canon characters are, be patient; there's a reason why I started the story with original characters. Introducing the canon characters right away is impossible for this story to be told correctly. I have a reason why I didn't start with Sherlock and all of them. **

**And while there isn't a prominent canon character present yet(nonetheless there is one in this chapter so there you go), I promise you I labored over this chapter. **

**Anyways, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own BBC's Sherlock. Otherwise, I would've written an alternate ending to Series 2. Or at least showed the resolution to his tragic 'suicide.' ;P But Moffat and the team have done a great job with the show.

* * *

**Chapter One: Recollection**

* * *

The cool sterile atmosphere and the steady beeping of a heart monitor were the first things that came to mind. Hospital. I was in the hospital. Brilliant.

As I gained consciousness, I painfully became aware of a tight cast completely wrapping my right arm and a stinging IV shoved in above my wrist. My head rested on a small pillow, and my body lay in a reclined position. A ridiculously thin hospital gown and an equally thread-like sheet draped up to my chest inadequately protected me from the freezing air. But my right hand was warm because my fingers intertwined with another hand. Someone's hand.

But afraid of the uncertainty, I dared not to open my eyes and remained still because I would have to deal with whatever happened next. And there I was, feeling like a vegetable with no idea of what'd just happened the past few hours. Or days. Or weeks. Time didn't matter to me at the moment.

Yet I knew I couldn't lay there forever.

So I twitched my left hand and then shifted the rest of my arm, rustling the bed sheets in the process. As a result, I heard creaking chairs, a soft gasp from my left and shuffles on my right. The hand in my right one squeezed.

"Alex?" The voice belonged to a man—with a British accent. Odd.

"Did…did she just move?" The second speaker was a female with an American accent I noticed.

The first person spoke again, a little stronger. "Alex, you awake?"

In answer, I cracked one eye open then the other, seeing a plaster ceiling and a fluorescent light above me. I tried to lick my chapped lips but found my tongue parched as well.

Two faces immediately hovered over mine as if reading me excitedly. On the left, a lightly tanned woman with grey eyes and black hair and on the right, a pale-faced man with cerulean blue eyes and light brunette hair. As soon as we made eye contact, the woman emitted another relieved gasp and collapsed back while the man silently sighed and broke into a genuine smile, surprising me by leaning forward and planting a kiss on my forehead._ Whoa._

"Oh, thank God," he whispered as he leaned his forehead against mine, our noses touching. "You scared me to death."

The room temperature suddenly rose 20 degrees. Goosebumps riddled my arms and legs, and heat rushed to my face. Just who was this dude? Definitely not my older brother.

When he finally scooted back to give me space, I got a better look at him. He was a considerably young man with an average build, but his face bore creases and a permanent sort of frown. But as soon as his gaze fell on me again, his expression turned into that of wistfulness and relief. He wore a dress shirt and pants, but his appearance was disheveled as if he had rushed in, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose.

"Wha…" my throat croaked.

The black-haired woman hushed me, but she was unable to contain the immense delight in her voice. "It's all right, Alex. Just relax. I rang in the doctor so he'll coming in real soon to check on you, 'kay?"

She was young too. Her thin hair was cropped to her shoulders, and her face was chiseled in a triangular shape. Even though she had a small body structure, she didn't look like an anorexic or bulimic. She wore a knee-length jean skirt and a brown hooded sweater over a light green blouse.

"I'm thirsty," I managed to say.

"Okay," she nodded before turning to the other. "Why don't you go and ask for some ice chips."

The brunette was all too eager to help. "All right." He rose from his seat and quietly exited the room but not without leaving another kiss on my knuckle. It sent shivers down my spine. Pleasant or not, I wasn't sure.

As soon as he was gone, I sent a grateful smile to the woman. "Thanks."

But instead of returning the favor, she deeply frowned and flicked my ear. Not the reaction I was expecting. "Don't you ever…_ever_ do that again, Alex Traherne! You nearly gave me a heart attack when they called me!"

"I—I'm sorry," I stuttered, gingerly rubbing my sore ear lobe. That had snapped me wide awake. "I didn't mean to…"

"You'd better be sorry," she drawled in an 'obviously' tone. "Umbrella Man isn't gonna be happy—"

"Where am I?"

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital," she replied before rambling off. I didn't pay attention to whatever she said next.

St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The name struck me as familiar but foreign at the same time since I came from a small town of at least 7000 people. And my town hospital's name was _not_ St. Bartholomew's_. _I glanced at the woman again. How did she and the other guy know me? Why are they here and not my parents? That meant something was wrong with this picture. I knew it.

I cut her off again. "Do I know you? I mean where's…"

"Excuse me?" She said, deadpanned. My question must've scared her completely. Or set her off really bad.

"I'm sorry, it's just…where are my parents? I thought they knew—"

"What's your name?" There was a slight panic in her voice.

"Alex Traherne," I said warily. Of course, I knew my name ignoring that she had addressed me a minute ago.

"What year is it?"

"…2012, last time I checked."

Something like shock flashed in her eyes as if I had said the wrong answer, but she pressed on. "What are your parents' names?"

That one came easy. "Thomas and Donna Traherne."

But again, did I give the wrong answer? She wasn't looking peachy. "Siblings."

"Three brothers, one sister."

"Friends."

"Ah, you and…the other dude that just left?"

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she collapsed back into her seat, her focus on the floor as if her mind raced with thoughts. A second later, she stared me down hard. "Your code. What's your code?"

"E—excuse me?"

"I said your code. What's your _code_?" she hissed with urgency as if my life depended on it.

What was she talking about? Was I some special robot or secret agent? Though I would've preferred the second guess. I slowly shook my head. "No, I—I don't know. What's that gotta do with…"

My answer seemed to hit her like a ton of bricks as she sunk into her seat again. "You don't…that…that can't happen…" And she began to mutter to herself rather vehemently, her hands grabbing the sides of her chair in a death grip. Her gaze returned to me. "Fine, what's my name then?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry!" I shot back but immediately regretted it. "I don't…I'm sorry." I felt bad because here I was immensely frustrating her because—

I stopped short and silently gasped. Amnesia. She thought I had amnesia; she recognized me, but reacted to my answers, answers that didn't make sense to her. No, I didn't have amnesia. Of course not. Why would I?

But not wanting to muse over my present troubles, I dismissed my thoughts and took a glance around my room. It was small and mediocre, the typical recovery premises in a hospital. A white oak door on the left leading to the hallway, a window on the right with outdated blinders, a white-tiled floor that reflected the banal ceiling, two black metal chairs on either side of my bed, a hanging IV bag and a heart monitor on my right, and a nightstand on my left.

The silence in the room was broken when a middle-aged man (followed by the one who had kissed me) opened the door. My guy friend wordlessly placed a cup of thin ice cubes on the nightstand and made his way around the bed to return to his seat, taking my hand in his larger ones and sending me a reassuring smile.

The stethoscope draped around the older man's neck, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a name tag that read 'William Soren, M.D.' gave way that he was a doctor. His hair was a pepper color, his eyes were a warm chocolate-brown, and his face albeit worn from stress as a medical man had a soft countenance. I did a double take. Was it me or did he remind me of David Tennant?

"I see you're awake, young lady. I'm Doctor Soren," he said with a professional smile and a British accent. I'm coincidentally meeting a lot of Brit people, aren't I? "Is it a habit for Americans to run into chaotic intersections?"

Everyone else except the troubled female on my left chuckled.

"No, sir," I replied after finishing my laugh. "But idiots do." At the doctor's raised eyebrow, I resignedly sighed. "And I'm one of those idiots, aren't I?"

It was his turn to chortle as he checked my vitals and the heart monitor. "I thought so. You name is Alex Traherne, is it? Your boyfriend told me you were awake."

"Boyfriend?" I dared not to glance askance to my right.

"Do you remember what year it is?"

I hesitated here again. What was the doctor going to think? "2012."

But instead of balking, he hummed and scribbled a few notes on his clipboard. How he addressed me the rest of the time showed a cautious approach to something he knew was wrong. "Uh-huh. How old are you?"

"Um, eighteen?"

"What?" That had definitely got my "boyfriend's" attention. I'd failed to notice his surprise when I was confused about said boyfriend, but I saw that declaring my age appalled him.

Soren ignored the younger man and continued with the questions, scratching notes as he spoke. "Are you suffering from any headache or dizziness at the moment?"

"No," I answered.

"So how are you feeling?"

"Hungry, sir."

He paused as he finished writing. "Now," he turned his attention to my distressed female acquaintance who took to the comfort of watching the doctor, "would you like to ask your best friend some questions?"

"Already have." My "best friend" glanced at me with a blank expression before politely focusing on Dr. Soren. "I think I'd like to have a word with you." She looked at my shell-shocked…boyfriend. I shuddered. It was strange calling a man you just met minutes ago your "boyfriend." "Tim, you come along too."

Tim (as he was called?) was searching my face for any sign of recognition. "No, that…" His elated look had changed into one of disbelief, his eyes darting between me and Dr. Soren. His desperation was guilt-ridding me, and I wondered if I could do anything to console him. I hated hurting any guy's feelings…well, most of them anyways.

"Alex, w—what are you saying?" he stammered. "Do you not remember—"

"Come on, Romeo," my black-haired friend said curtly. She and the other man were waiting at the door. "You can dote on her afterwards."

Though reluctant to leave me again, Tim sent me a longing look before releasing his grip and following the two out, the door swinging closed behind them and leaving me in the quiet again.

Sooner or later, I would have to face whatever this reality was. And the thought frightened me. What happens next? Uncertainty built up inside me when I didn't receive an answer. I didn't want think about it but rather focus on the fact that was I awake. I was awake, right?

I pinched my leg. Ow. That hurt so I really was conscious. This wasn't a dream. No, but _this _had to be a dream. Because if this wasn't a dream, then what I knew before (my parents, my siblings, my friends, my life) from…the other reality was _the _dream. My left arm draped over my eyelids as I willed myself not to cry, a shaky breath escaping me and tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. Rationalizing everything only made a whirl of emotions coarse inside my guts; nothing made sense…so far.

But I had yet to ask of their accounts, who they were and how they knew who I was. And if they knew anything about that night. Because all I remembered was that I was suicidal in the middle of traffic…no, that wasn't all. Before that, I was driving with someone. The best friend I knew. I was taking her home until—

The lights. The headlights and the horn of a semi-truck. It was the beginning of a head-on collision until I found myself standing in a street. A car accident, and responsible for another life. My best friend. Where was my best friend? Oh, man was I ever going to be in deep trouble. But no one ever mentioned a car accident or another person with me.

What had I gotten myself into?

After what felt like an eternity of silence, the door swung open, and my two acquaintances stepped in followed by a serious-faced doctor. I hastily rubbed my eyes. The sulking woman slouched as she returned to her seat, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at me. That annoyed me greatly. Tim was a different story; he refused to make eye contact with me as he crossed the room and took his place in his chair, his face was of complete devastation.

I copied my first friend's movements as best I could but winced when pain shot through my right arm. "All right, could someone explain to me what's going on?" I cut off Soren before he could open his mouth. "And don't sugarcoat it either. My brain's fine." _Partially. _"First off, you," I snapped my head at the woman next to me. "What's your name so I don't have to call you just 'best friend'?" Then I added as an afterthought, "Not that I don't like you."

"Robyn Lawrence," she answered shortly. "And since you want it cut and dry, you have amnesia, or you're _really_ bipolar, or you're playing a _really _cruel prank on us."

I scowled even more. "Okay, one, I do not have amnesia. Two, I am not bipolar. And three, why would I play a prank on you guys by risking my life?"

"Mad," she laughed humorlessly, gesturing to me with emphasis. "She's gone mad. I don't know how I'm going to deal with this—"

"Robyn, please," Tim moaned, his hands wearily rubbing his face. "Just shut up. This isn't going to help with her memory loss."

"Well, then I would _love _to hear your suggestion because I honestly don't know if I can handle this!"

"Miss Lawrence and Mr. Dimmock, would you two _please _compose yourselves?" Soren ordered harshly. "I don't feel the need to supervise _three _patients, one of amnesia and two of insanity. And I am not about to babysit immature grownups."

I was mildly surprised at the doctor's treatment of my two acquaintances but had me wondering if he knew them or even me personally. I brushed off the idea. As for the other two, I let them lament their loss for now; their impatience and dramatic responses made me lose my empathy for them, and maybe it was the same for Soren. From what I've heard, full-time medical people didn't have much of a social life. Then again, I could be wrong.

"Okay, doc, what have I got?" I asked in a bored tone, wanting to hear the actual diagnosis from someone experienced.

"Officially, you have retrograde amnesia," he answered. "But judging by your answers, I'd like to think you have…_selective _retrograde amnesia."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"_Retrograde _amnesia is basically amnesia that causes patients to lose the ability to recall past events or memories. In most cases, recent past events."

Sensing an incomplete statement, I urged him, "But…"

"From what your friend's told me, you've completely forgotten your past like family, friends," he glanced at Robyn with a questioning look, "and et cetera. Not only that, you've replaced it with different…information." He had difficulty finding the correct word.

I thought it over. His analysis did make sense, shedding some light on Robyn and Tim's distress. No wonder it sounded like I was lying to them. "Are you certain you have the right person? Because I might be their friend's doppelgänger," I said._ Or the girl's long-lost twin. Unintentionally evil twin. _

"No, you're Alex Traherne, young lady. You said so yourself, and I have your medical records."

"Well, I could be somebody else with the same name coincidently."

The doctor furrowed his eyebrows. "And for someone who's suffered memory loss, you don't act like you do. For one, you didn't suffer any head trauma, no concussion or any injury of such. And your amnesia wasn't caused by any premedicant."

I stared at Soren. Was he even listening to me? "Please don't tell me you think I'm lying through my teeth just for the fun of it."

"I'm telling you I'm not," he insisted. "The fact you recognized me (or rather watched me peculiarly) and not your boyfriend or your best friend is proof too."

"So I'm _not _supposed to know you," I said skeptically. "Prove it."

"Alex, I know amnesia when I see it. Yours is just…unusual."

"Right," I huffed, blowing at my bangs. "Let me get this straight: so I have amnesia, but it's a special case."

He beamed from ear to ear, too much like the Tenth Doctor in all his wacky glory. "Precisely."

I rolled my eyes. At least, he somewhat understood what I was thinking even if in the slightest; he was trained to be familiar with the symptoms of memory loss.

My next challenge was dealing with the two bewailing in their little worlds. Had I not been the cause of their misery, I would've found their current behavior rather comical than heart-wrenching. Though past the point of shock, Robyn looked as if she was ready to explode out of her mind from trying to work out my predicament in her head. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, biting a fingernail and apprehensively bouncing her legs on her toes. Not really lady-like. And poor Tim. It was like he had learned of my inevitable death by terminal cancer. I shrugged it off. Clichéd TV drama moment.

Dr. Soren guffawed at the state of my friends. "She's not dying, you know. She's perfectly fine; vitals are splendid, blood levels stable, and she'll recover in a day. You have nothing to worry about."

_Other than her obvious amnesia, _I mentally finished his sentence.

Robyn glowered at him. "So how long will it take for her to recover her memories? A few days? Weeks?"

The doctor gave a slight wave of the hand. "It depends on time and the severity of the damage. The longest time might be months." He smiled sympathetically and clasped a hand on her shoulder when she heavily sighed in disappointment. "I'm so sorry. Only time will tell what happens next."

I opened my mouth to protest but then clamped it shut. Anything else I would say next would be taken as the words of a confused amnesic. Not a person with mistaken identity. No matter how much I would try to explain, I understood that they wouldn't be able to comprehend what I knew. And I wasn't in the mood to complicate things as they already were, but I promised myself to clarify matters later…at the right time. So I said nothing, letting the people present proceed.

Robyn sighed once again. She was defeated enough as she was. "Okay, what's next? Does she start treatment or therapy—"

"Therapy?" I said stupidly.

"Well, you can try to ask easier questions today," Soren advised. "After you get her home, you can delve in deeper. "She's still in shock—"

"I am _not _in shock!" I thought that was pushing it too much.

"Taking in her surroundings," he corrected himself, still addressing Robyn. "So you'll have to be patient, young lady."

I had enough of them disregarding my presence. "So we can start by telling me what happened last night or whenever," I growled then I looked at the black-haired woman. "I'm not fragile or sick so stop acting like you're about to lose it."

Robyn started, clearly frustrated with me. "You just randomly ran into the middle of the street. What were you thinking, Alex?"

"Lost and going insane 'cause of voices in my head," I said flatly. I suddenly checked myself. "Okay, I can say you're right about me going mad."

"You remember exactly what happened?" Soren asked.

I wavered. "No, not really." I wasn't about to tell them about me driving with someone right before a possible head-on collision.

The doctor drew closer to my bedside. "According to reports, you were hyperventilating, complaining of head pain, and losing blood from deep lacerations on your arm though nothing life-threatening. But then eventually you passed out from exhaustion, and remained unconscious for two days. Your arm was the only major concern, but other than minor bruising, you're fine. The only puzzling thing is your memory. If you were listening, Robyn, I mentioned that she had no head injury."

Unfortunately, she didn't find that fact worth noting. "So what? I don't care how or why she forgot everything. That's not a good thing. At all."

"I told you not to worry," he said, placing a hand on Robyn's. "She's fine, and her ailment is likely temporary. And she's definitely not traumatized."

"Obviously." I rolled my eyes.

"So there's nothing else we can do? Just wait and hope she regains her memories?" she groaned.

"With a little prodding," Soren added with emphasis. "But I'm afraid that's all I can do. Call me if you need anything else. I have other patients to attend to." He made his way to the door and opened it halfway. "Oh, and try not to bombard her with too much. Then you'll really upset her." And with that, he slipped outside, the door swinging closed with a soft click.

Another awkward pause ensued with the exception of the heart monitor's steady beep and the low buzz of the air con overhead. Man, it was freezing cold.

_Oh, well. Might as well start. _"H-hey…Robyn?" I tested the name. "Sorry…about all this happening. I messed things for you and…" I trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

Robyn pinched her nose bridge and propped her elbows on her thighs but remained quiet, avoiding my gaze.

"Robyn," I said sullenly.

Sitting up and looking at me, she put on a weak grin, but her façade still crumbled. "So," she toyed with the hem of her skirt, "um, you wanna know—I mean, remember your history?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said quietly.

Before Robyn could begin, Tim wordlessly rose from his seat and headed towards the door, his head hanging and hands shoved into his pockets. I'd almost forgotten he was there. His hand was on the door handle. "Call me later," he said without glancing in our direction. "And let me know how she's doing. I'll be heading back to work." He shut the door behind him.

There was a moment of silence before I said anything. "Hang on, why isn't he staying?"

Robyn took in a sharp breath and cleared her throat. "He needs to…adjust to your condition."

"Okay? First off," my eyes lingered on the door before turning to Robyn, "that was my boyfriend?"

"_Is _your boyfriend," she corrected me, chuckling lightly. "Timothy Dimmock, Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard. We met him at a police conference about a business scandal and actually helped him on the case. After that, you started going out with him. Funny, and you swore that you'd never date." She put on a concerned face at my dubious one. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But I was dumbstruck, flabbergasted. That fact was still over my head. "I'm just…I'm going out…I'm going out with somebody."

"Obviously," Robyn grinned, rolling her eyes. "I wondered what you saw in him."

"So do I," I murmured absently.

We both looked at each other…and burst out laughing. Eventually, I had to stop when shifting jolted pain through my injured arm, but that didn't remove the grin from my lips. At least, neither of us was sending hostile messages to each other, and it was best that we didn't start that way either. But I decided to keep my guard up; I didn't want to lose any spark of trust from her. Yet I wasn't expecting Robyn to accept my condition right away in the first place. Or my unusual behavior for that matter. If I was stuck in this place, I might as well go with the motion. And if I had a life established already, I determined myself not to blunder any established detail.

"But really, what did I see in that guy?"

Robyn broke down into more giggles. "I told you I don't know. You're the one dating him."

I sucked in my lower lip, fighting back another snort. "Guess I'll have to find out?"

"Yeah, guess so—" she balked and stared at me suspiciously. "Hang on, are you—"

"Just ignore me. I…I'm just trying to adjust to this."

She didn't look convinced. "Right."

"Just work with me here, please. If I were lying to you, I would've admitted it to you ten minutes ago. I can't hold a bluff for more than two minutes. And would the Alex you know lie to you? Was she good at bluffing?"

"Expert," Robyn replied seriously. "And I say you're still good at it too, _Alex_."

I grew irritated. _Okay, that wasn't good._ "Well, then you're wrong, _Robyn._ And I'll give you proof. Who's David Tennant?"

"Who?"

"See? You don't know who he is. Welsh-born British actor."

Robyn _still _wasn't convinced. "So what? I don't randomly stalk a man named David Tenwhatever just because he's an actor. And I certainly don't bother with show biz. For all I know, you're playing a really good bluff, or you're really going mad."

I growled. That didn't work. What else could I use as an example? "I'm serious. I really don't know you or that guy that just walked out or anything. Whether you believe me or not, just tell me what I need to know."

"And how is that going to help?" she laughed mirthlessly. "It's just making me look stupid, telling you what you know already."

I was getting ticked that she wasn't exactly encouraging, but her stubbornness showed that nothing of my character was…uncharacteristic to her. In her opinion, I was sharing this Alex's same face, same voice, and probably same personality with a heavy dose of amnesia. That wasn't promising. But then I thought of my supposed boyfriend. His opinion might be different.

"Please, just tell me," I said, trying to keep my rising anger in check. "What did I get wrong?"

She remained silent for a moment, her gaze scrutinizing me for any hesitation or fault. "One, you don't have any living family members." She continued at my questioning look. "In fact, you never knew them. My family adopted you, and we became inseparable sisters. You heard that we're best friends already."

I felt queasy in the pit of my stomach, an ache growing in my throat. "What do you mean I don't have any family? They were at home—"

"No, Alex." She rested a hand on my left arm as if to settle me down. "We don't even know what their first names were. All we had was a last name. And siblings, how did you come up with that?"

"Of course I didn't make that up," I replied, incredulous. In my mind, my family was home (except for my oldest brother in college). But before the drive… "Do you recall me driving you home last night or two days ago or whenever?"

"No," Robyn arched an eyebrow and shook her head. "We were at the Criterion, sipping coffee and writing essays for college."

Now it was my turn to be confused. "What? But we had a movie night at my house, remember? With Jojo and Micah and the rest of them?"

She shook her head again.

"You serious?"

"What on earth are _you _talking about?"

"Uh, what I remember?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"You asked me if I remembered anything."

"No, I wasn't! And that's not what happened at all!"

"In my head, it did!"

"Whatever happened in your head didn't happen in real life! Thus you _do _have amnesia."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Uh-huh!"

"No!"

"Ugh!" She threw up her hands, exasperated. "Some things don't change at all! You're irritating as ever when it comes to fighting."

I smirked in satisfaction. I had to agree with her; my best friend (the one I knew) and I had our arguments too, and this one was no different. "Is that a good thing?" I asked curiously, sitting up. I waved a hand when she moved to push me back. "No, I'm fine really. Just go on and tell me...whatever."

"You sure?" she asked uncertainly. "Might be too much for you."

"I'm fine."

She snorted. "True, you do have too much energy for having amnesia…or you're really bipolar."

"Anywaaays…"

"How old did you say you were?" she asked, back to serious mode.

"Eighteen," I said.

"And what year is it?"

"2012."

"No."

"What?"

"You're not eighteen," she said. "You're a twenty-four year old studying Renaissance English Literature as a foreign transfer student. Same with me. Except I'm twenty-three."

That took me a minute to say anything at all. "You're kidding me, right?" I laughed nervously. I was an old woman already?

"And this isn't 2012. It's 2011."

I balked, deadpanned. "What?" There was no way my age and the date had changed. "Hang on, did you say foreign transfer student? What do you mean—" _No, there was no way. It couldn't be._ "Where is here?"

"St. Bartholomew's—"

"No, I know that, but what country?"

"England."

My heart stopped for the third time that day. There was just no end to life's surprises, huh? "WHAT?"

Robyn pressed a button on a remote near my bed, never taking her eyes off of me. "Doctor, could you get back in here now?"

* * *

**Spoilers for the next chapter: Alex dealing with the mysterious 'code' and learning of her head boss - Just who is the Umbrella Man? ;)**

**Reviews are deeply appreciated. Thanks.**


	3. A Myriad of Musings and the Meeting

**Aaand let me tell you, I had a love/hate relationship with this certain chapter for almost five months. But I saw a major perspective on writing change for the better, and it's increased my love for English. In fact, I'm thinking of studying for an English major...**

**Anywhos, here's chapter two.**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own BBC's Sherlock. Otherwise, this show would be an epic failure... lol Moffat and Gatiss are the pros here.

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**Chapter Two: A Myriad of Musings and the Meeting of the Man**

* * *

"_And this isn't 2012. It's 2011."_

"_You're kidding me, right?"_

…

"_Where is here?"_

"_St. Bartholomew's__—__"_

"_No, I know that, but what country?"_

"_England."_

"_WHAT?"_

Here was my opinion of this revelation of reality/time travel:

I felt like I was in a reality TV show with the setting being an incredibly poor runner-up to _Doctor Who._ _Inception _came up as a second guess, but I didn't find the world spinning in somersaults or hanging upside down. Neither was I jumping between two different worlds…as of yet. I might've added _Somewhere in Time _on the list except I didn't like the sappy romance as the main genre. Plus, I didn't think I was hypnotizing myself just to make starry eyes at some old person from the past. Or the future…or the present? Anyways, you get the picture.

If alternate realities weren't bad enough, personal circumstances had changed. I was a klutzy eighteen year-old in a coordinated twenty-four year-old body. Time had lapsed back from 2012 to 2011. Walden of New York had transformed into London of England. Plans for a music degree at community college warped into schedules of Renaissance Literature as a foreign transfer student. My family was dead with little to no form of identification. And finally, I was dating a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Yep, certainly a lot of information to throw at someone who is suffering from post time/reality-travel sickness.

Another change was a self-proclaimed friend who took my inquisitive chattering and dumbfounded fascination with my surroundings as delirium. And I began to sense that Robyn was displeased with my state. Whenever I asked about an unclear aspect of my 'real' life, she would clarify the details but with an air that said, 'You're really that stupid with amnesia, aren't you?' I think she had half a mind to leave me to vegetate in that hospital.

But as if she _could_ just leave me on my own.

I learned that we shared an apartment, that I was her adopted sister, and that she and her parents were the only living family I had. The person who seemed to hate me at the moment unfortunately had irreversible connections.

The forgotten code and the Umbrella Man were topics that Robyn never brought up on her own. During the last hours of my hospital stay, I flippantly (constantly) asked about said subjects, but she replied with either a tilt of the head or a confused look as if she'd never heard of them before.

"Either you tell me or I pry it out of you. There's no point in hiding it," I said, weary of her dodgy responses.

Robyn relented but maintained a guarded look in her eyes. "I'll explain when we get home."

That satisfied me enough to shut my mouth.

A day after I gained consciousness, I was discharged from the hospital and on my way to an uncertain future, only equipped with a life that probably belonged to someone else (and one I had no business to take over) and a roommate growing less than cooperative with me.

Robyn and I took a taxi to our rented apartment, neither of us bothering to start a conversation since I was too busily drawn to the sights of hectic London. I had always dreamed of visiting England with my best friend (my _other_ best friend), but studying in the country as a transfer student didn't seem so bad either. Half an hour later, our ride finally rolled to a stop next to a less-congested street. Robyn paid the cabbie, and we both marched out into the crisp morning air. I noted that we were near a residential part of the city. And sure enough, we headed in that direction.

"We're in Kennington, a little southeast of Westminster if you're wondering," Robyn stated as we arrived at the front door of a certain apartment. Sandwiched between two other similar flats, our three-story building was a worn-sanguine brick color with black-iron bordered windows.

But before she could put the key into the lock, the door was flung open by a weathered old man with thin graying hair and clouded amber eyes. His eyebrows rose, and his voice faltered in astonishment… (Friendly reminder: to avoid redundancy on my part, just assume that every new person I meet is British unless I state otherwise. Thank you.)

"Birdie, you're back already. I thought that…" he trailed off as his squinting gaze landed on me, his lips pulling into an overjoyed smile. "Alex, you're all better now! Oh, just look at you, right as rain."

"Yeah, I—" I yelped when strong arms enveloped me, a fatherly kiss pressed into my hair. I tentatively patted him on the back in return. _My second welcome to a different world, not so bad._

"What am I doing?" he laughed as he drew back. He bade us inside, steering us into his living room and having us sit on a hideous plaid couch. "I'll make you two some cuppa while you tell what happened, yeah?" With that, he happily bumbled to the kitchen.

I glanced at Robyn next to me, silently pleading that she'd be the one to explain.

"You go on upstairs. I'll take care of this," she said, tossing me the keys and pointing out a specific one.

I nodded and headed for the stairs in the hallway, skipping steps and reaching the door at the top. After fumbling with the lock for a minute, I opened the door and stepped in, taking in the state of the place.

The apartment was one of the recently built lots so the setup was modernized; organize-smart and space-efficient furniture; black granite countertops in the kitchen; whitewash walls in the living room plus the two bedrooms and single bathroom; and the standard (and boring) beige carpet throughout the place excluding the tile-floored kitchen.

Everything else screamed lazy bones of two college students, and the smell of leftovers (of who on earth knows what) didn't help either. I almost gagged. At the hospital, Robyn had sharply informed me that I was a slob despite my 'demanding occupation.' She had even declared that it was a miracle that Tim hadn't visited our horrendous place (her words) yet.

I saw my roommate's efforts to make the residence even decent, but everywhere else had a pile of something; the living room leather couch was the resting place for recently washed laundry yet to be put away, the dining table served as the office for scattered papers —bills, newspapers, important documents— and writing utensils, and every other crook and corner was occupied with knick knacks or stacks of more files, some of them stamped 'confidential' or 'top secret.' Not a very smart move on Robyn's (or my) part.

I mentally noted to spring-clean the whole place one day, disgusted with the condition.

Making to what appeared to be my room without miraculously stumbling into the clutter, I went through the drawers and rummaged out a Washington D.C. sweatshirt to wear over my thin Old Navy shirt and a pair of loose jeans to replace the knee-length skirt Robyn had brought for me at the hospital. But I kept the fur-trimmed boots, content with the warmth it gave.

Suddenly curious of my appearance, I discovered a full-length body mirror hanging behind the door and took a good look at myself. I ran hands through the dark brunette hair which grew at least three inches longer, and I stared back at the same hazel eyes that carried a haggard look of experience. At last examination, I glowered at the fact that I had…well, aged. My facial features were more distinguished, but if I was supposed to look like _that_ in six years…_How disappointing. No more looking forward to the twenties._

The person in the mirror was me yet _not _me; this body felt like my own…yet not my own. I was a living contradiction.

"Wonder what happened to the other 'Alex,'" I mused out loud as my fingers traced the jaw line. That was a slight difference.

The other 'Alex.' I hadn't given thought to the possibility of another me, but the idea grew more valid and developed into more theories…and more worries. Sci-Fi media suggested that there were parallel worlds running at the same time as your own, that every choice made created another parallel world. But in nearly each parallel universe of yours, you existed in one way or another. So meeting another version of me wasn't traumatizing as switching places with…'me'…as in 'me' of a different reality. Wrap your head around that.

"Alex, you in here?" Robyn's voice called out from the downstairs hallway. I heard her marching up the stairs.

"Yeah," I replied, heading back to the living room to meet up with her.

"I'll make sandwiches, and you go make the tea." She made a beeline for the kitchen while I trailed behind her. "By the way, Jason called. Said he's gonna be here in a few minutes."

"How about the old man downstairs?"

No answer.

"O-kay." I would just have to bump into our greeter another time. Robyn didn't seem in the mood to make reintroductions.

I went to a random cabinet but then stopped. "Uh, exactly how do you make English tea?"

My roommate ended up making the tea herself, ordering me to sit at the island kitchen and then grumbling to herself that I was the worst best friend she ever had. Teasingly asking her if she had _other_ best friends rewarded me with the silent treatment. Lunch was nonetheless an uncomfortable one. While I nibbled my scrambled egg sandwich and sipped my tea heavily doused with sugar, Robyn sat next to me brooding, having finished her meal already.

But she didn't bring up the evaded code or the Umbrella Man like she promised. I decided not remind her, now uncertain if I wanted to find out after seeing allegedly classified documents flung onto the table with negligence. Either we stole those papers, or we worked for the government.

Umbrella Man…the name reminded me of Mary Poppins and a certain man who…

Nah, I imagined too much. I had watched an unhealthy amount of British TV as of recently. Namely, _Doctor Who, Whitechapel, Sherlock…_

With lunch finished, I insisted that I wash the dishes, managing to receive a smirk. Sincere or sarcastic I couldn't tell.

After being dumped into an alternate reality, I already found myself in a droning routine. Anticipation for the unknown grew dull as soap suds wrinkled my hands, and hopes of returning home —my real home— died with every passing second. Even the thrill of the reality/time jump became stale like last year's movie. I had expected immediate action, anything to keep me moving, but that wasn't the case.

Until the doorbell went off.

I almost shrieked in delight and bolted out to answer the caller, but—

"I'll get it. _You_ stay put." Pointing a finger at me, Robyn tossed the kitchen rag into the sink and raced downstairs to get the door herself.

Blowing at my bangs in resignation, I resumed with drying the dishes and putting them back into the proper cabinets. I peered over the counter to see who would arrive._ Man, what's it with me and door bells?_

The door downstairs abruptly slammed with a bang followed by two agitated voices. (Well, one was agitated while the second was confused by the first's dramatic rambling.) I hurriedly dried my hands on a towel and bounded to the front door just in time to greet Robyn and a sandy blonde-haired man with baby-blue eyes who was looking indeed bemused of the first's aggravation.

"I tell you he's not gonna be happy with this. Her." Robyn shot me a look before heading to her room. The visitor and I followed.

"How would you know?" the man snorted as if the issue were small. _Another American like me and Robyn_. _How comforting._ "Unlike me, you haven't been in the same room with that man alone for five minutes."

"You know very well that you don't need to be with him for five minutes to know what he's thinking. It's written all over his face," she argued. Robyn grabbed a shoulder bag and stuffed in various papers and personal items. "The fact that he wants a meeting with us—us means we're in big trouble. Acting like that is gonna get you in trouble, Jason. And you're supposed to be in charge."

I glanced at the man, understanding. "Oh, so you're Jason."

His gaze fell on me, startled. "You're serious? You don't…" He turned to Robyn for confirmation. "Is she kidding?"

"No," I answered before my roommate could. "And _who_ are you talking about?"

He blinked before weakly replying, "Umbrella Man. We're about to pay him a visit."

"We?"

Jason ignored my question. "Come on, we don't have all day. Our ride's waiting outside."

After Robyn finished packing, Jason led us downstairs and outside to a black luxury car parked in front. The man who had greeted us earlier was mysteriously absent, but I said nothing as we slipped into the back of the vehicle.

It was twenty minutes later when I asked the driver where we were going. All I got was a monotonous 'Dover' and left it at that.

Speaking of a vague destination, our ride was taking us out the city and into the wide countryside. The early morning sun was still rising, casting its pale but bright light onto the scene and peaking through the characteristic England fog. Small green lazily rolled about the coarse green fields, and ancient-looking wood fencing ran along the road, weeds sprouting from each post. The fields and the asphalt indicated a previous evening shower in that area. England was beautiful.

Except we weren't there for sightseeing.

We had a meeting with our boss: the Umbrella Man. Rather a comical title for one's superior, and there was always a reason for such a label. The nickname was jesting, but Robyn and Jason seemed terrified of the man himself. I prayed to God that we weren't doing questionable jobs for some underground operation, but with all the dodgy responses concerning my mystery occupation, I figured that I was definitely involved with some secretive work. For good or for bad, I would have to find out when I got there.

Two hours afterward, we pulled right onto a gravel road that led to a huge estate. The mansion was styled Victorian with its towering glass-stained windows and fancy trimmings. Dogwood trees and simple landscaping with occasional yellows and pastel oranges surrounded the place to brighten the isolated property, and a mold-choked fountain marked the traffic circle in front of the main entrance. Maybe the boss was one of those filthy-rich crime lords. _Perfect_.

After the car was parked at the entrance, a waiting butler opened the door for us and motioned us to follow him into the manor. As we were led through, my jaw hung in awe of the size of the place with its dark hues and the traditional yet contemporary setup. I didn't ask whose house it was.

"This way, please." The butler was waiting to the side of what was the sitting room, gesturing for us to enter.

We filed in, me first, then Robyn, then Jason.

To my right, two antique armoires faced a blazing marble fireplace to my south right. Behind the chairs, a mini bar was situated against the wall, and a mirror hung above the table. And beyond the sitting room was the joined dining table with eight chairs and a wall of stained window aloft behind the table. As I took in the place, my stomach became queasy, a nagging sensation tingling in the back of my on earth had I seen this room?

"I see you're in spectacular condition."

I froze.

That voice…that _too_ _recognizable_ voice.

I whirled around so that I was facing the fireplace. The right armoire nearest me was occupied with the silhouette of a man, and a ticking watch I hadn't noticed was in his left hand as he checked the time. After three seconds, he clamped it shut and tucked it away, gracefully rising and turning to face us.

My jaw dropped again in a most inappropriate manner, and my eyes bulged as I identified the man.

His face was shaped roundly, and his stormy blue-green eyes were lit in firelight. At an age between his late forties and early fifties, he had creases around his eyes and forehead, and his orange-tinted brown hair was thinning. He was wearing an expensive three-piece suit and polished dress shoes, his left hand shoved into a pant pocket. He smiled in a way that he was thinking the opposite of a welcome.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

The only missing article was the favored umbrella in his right hand. _The Umbrella Man. _The name made sense now.

Using his height to glower over me, the 'minor' government official took a step forward. "Well done, _Agent Traherne._"

I only had one thought as the world teetered precariously to its side and oblivion engulfed my vision: It was Mycroft Holmes, the brother of the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

"—inutes ago! I thought the doctor said she had no concussion."

"…An epiphany maybe? _Eureka _moment?"

"An epiphany…seriously?"

"I mean she might've remembered something. Maybe Holmes' face triggered a memory. I don't know."

There was a pause.

"Oh, I'm gonna slap her when she wakes up!"

"Robyn!"

When my eyesight refocused, I found myself lying on a veranda with two faces (one amused and the other cross) peering at mine from above. I shut my eyes and groaned, bringing a hand to my forehead from a minor headache. I had hoped that I wouldn't find myself in this situation again. I was proved wrong.

"Sorry," I whispered, pushing myself up. I smugly turned to Robyn. "What were you saying about slapping me when I woke up?"

Jason caught Robyn's wrist halfway when she decided to pull her promise through. "Now's not the time."

Letting out a moan, I slid my legs off the veranda but kept myself there. "Is he still there—" I spotted the object of my attention back in his armoire. "Oh."

"Now that you're finished with your spell," he said non-too-friendly, "would you please have a seat? We have much to discuss." He waved to the chair next to him.

Receiving an affirmed nod from Jason, I rose from the veranda on shaky feet and shuffled to the fireplace, sitting on the edge of the offered armchair and folding my hands in my lap. But I dared not to look him in the eye yet.

I wanted all of this to be a dream. I half-expected for a director to pop out of nowhere and stop the whole take to point out what was wrong, what I was doing wrong. I anticipated for anything to magically appear. This had to be a dream. A really good one. Waking up at the hospital with a different identity wasn't bad enough apparently. No, finding out that my boss was the self-esteemed older brother of the world's most famous fiction detective was a nightmare.

"Anything you would like to say in defense? You should remember that I'm not exactly a patient man to begin with."

I clenched my hands and forced myself to look at the speaker. With Mycroft's presence as the center of my attention, everything around me screamed fake, fiction, fantasy. None of this was real. It had to be. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, quit with the acting.

_Stop with this charade!_ I wanted to cry out, but—

"You wouldn't happen to be related to a Professor Lazarus, would you?" tumbled out instead. I instantly regretted my choice of words and slapped my mouth closed, expecting severe punishment for such an abominable comparison. After that particularly scarring _Doctor Who_ episode, I never looked at the man the same way again.

But to my surprise…

"Most certainly not." Mycroft sounded tremendously insulted. "It was difficult to keep the matter hush-hush. Especially when he formerly worked at Baskerville. Cleaning up was...tedious."

I flinched, disgusted. "I thought the guy wasn't…you know, real."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward for a second. "I have the power to make it seem that way. And I can do the same to you."

"I know," I deadpanned. "You're the British government."

Robyn sucked in a sharp breath. "No..."

I dumbly blinked. "What?"

"Alex, don't you ever do to that to me again, or I swear—"

"Robyn, please." Jason hindered her from advancing on me once more.

"And you can see I'm not finished with her yet, Agent Lawrence," Mycroft said, level-headed. "Yes, she's…regained some of her memory, but I don't need you to rush things impulsively."

The woman mumbled an irked 'Yes, sir.'

Mycroft turned his attention back to me. "Is there a reason why you ask such a trivial with classified information instead of attempting to secure your position?"

"My position as what?" I was cautious, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.

He paused as he studied me with an inscrutable face. "Special case of amnesia indeed."

Jason made a choked sound. "Wait, she _still _doesn't remember?"

"She's regained _some _of her memory, not all of it. You understand that Traherne would never give into weak knees if inclined to infatuation which I hardly think possible when she knows that I'm her boss and that I mean business. So since it's not infatuation, it's recognition. From a different point of view."

"Funny,she remembers you but not me or Robyn."

"Did you not hear me? I said recognition. From a different point of view. I've read the medical reports, and they are mostly accurate," he said.

Jason was bothered by this bit of information. "A different point of view. How come we don't see that?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You are dunce. You didn't observe."

"Observe _what_?"

"She treats you and Lawrence more like strangers than acquaintances. She watches you two with skeptical but quizzical precaution. Her replies are insisting that she's truthful about being genuinely clueless, and her facial expressions scream weariness of Lawrence." He landed his gaze on me. "Am I wrong?"

I shook my head dumbly, but I squealed inside. _He deduced me! He just deduced me! _"Uh, yes—I mean, no?"

Neither Robyn nor Jason retaliated.

"Now," Mycroft clasped his hands together, "why don't we all discuss this more at the table over a few drinks?"

Two minutes later, I was sitting at the left end of the dining table, guzzling down my third glass of water. I was hyperventilating, but I did my best to keep myself subdued. The other three seemed to take no notice. Robyn (who had promised not strangle me) sat on my right. Holmes sat opposite me, and Jason was on his left. We were given four glasses of water, but the government official had poured himself a brandy from the mini bar. The other two left their drinks stagnant.

"Your health condition, Agent Traherne, may be understandable," Mycroft began, "but your actions three days prior are not."

My hand slipped, and the water glass dropped onto the table with a clang. I winced, mouthing an apology. "You mean the jaywalking?"

"I'm referring to _before_ your little stunt at Aldersgate. When you had let the target get his hands on you."

This produced a reaction from everyone else.

Robyn gaped at me. "You _what_?!"

Jason indistinctly moaned and ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and bowing his head.

"I know not what you speak of, my good sir," I said with poshness…before slamming hands on the table and raising my voice. "_So would you kindly explain what on earth you're talking about? _I'vehad _enough_ of this…being secretive and… vague. Why do you keep calling us agents? Are we some government spies or blackmailers?_"_

I interjected again before Mycroft opened his mouth, "Actually, wait. This has to do with the 'code,' doesn't it? If it's some long number, don't bother to tell me. I'm not gonna memorize it to save my life." Crossing my arms, I slumped in my seat and scowled. _I might as well give him a Sherlock attitude._

"Didn't you go over details with her, Lawrence?" Mycroft asked calmly.

Robyn refused to look at him. "Your driver picked us up before I could even start."

"I tried to get you to tell me at the hospital," I muttered.

"Well, obviously that wasn't the place to say you're a CIA agent. Get it now?"

I abruptly guffawed, skeptical. "Really? An agent as in secret agent?"

Robyn gave me a 'duh' look. And with the emotionless faces from the two men, I dropped the smirk.

_No, there was no way…_

I waited to let the news sink in. It wouldn't. "You're serious? Me? A secret agent from _the _CIA?"

"Yes, you're a CIA agent, oh brilliant one!" Robyn overstressed, waving her hands in the air like a charismatic on drugs. "That was a bit quick, wasn't it?"

"Is that a challenge I'm detecting? Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" _Wait till Mycroft hears that from his brother__—_ "Ow! Charlie, that really hurt!" I had gotten a flick to the ear, thanks to Robyn.

"I don't need references to petty home videos," Mycroft said bluntly.

"And I don't need the 'You're a secret agent' bomb," I said in equal tone. "Where's your proof?"

Mycroft craned his neck ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. "For one, you're talking with me. What else were you thinking when I had summoned you? You know I'm from the British government—"

"I know you _are_ the British government," I mumbled.

"Stop correcting me and let me continue!"

I shut up like a frightened, obedient child. But when Robyn and Jason stared at me as if setting off Mycroft was a shame and a feat, I decided to feel more pleased than scared of what I'd done.

"Two," he continued after giving himself a breather, "if that fact wasn't enough for you, I have the credentials." He slid three manila folders that had been with him to me. "Everything you need to be familiar with is in these. Plus your recent missions." He produced about five more files marked 'Confidential.'

I stared at the politician and then the folders and slumped against the back of my chair, suddenly wondering why I was dreading. I reached the folder with my general information and scanned the documents. As much as I wanted to take this place as a dream and the documents as another figment of my imaginations, I couldn't deny the surrealism as I read the almost-too-accurate information on the papers.

Physical description was about the same, but my birth date and my relations had changed. Just as Robyn had said, I had no living or known blood relations except for the Lawrences—my adopted family, but I had kept my birth last name. I double-checked the education section; I had attended the same high school from my other reality, but in college (which I had yet to attend) I had a master's degree in national security intelligence…or something like that.

Under the current information folder, I was under the alias of a foreign transfer student complete with false identification documents and financial support. The Lawrences were an influential family in politics.

The third folder was a summary of my CIA missions in the States, and the other five I didn't bother to open were titled for recent operations in the United Kingdom under Mycroft Holmes. But two of them caught my eye. "Operation Mastermind" and "The Coventry Conundrum."

I let out a whistle. "Wow, that's…that's a lot coming from me. You sure I did all of this?"

"And highly recommended by the O.R.E.A., the Office of Russian and European Analysis," Mycroft added.

"I thought America was focusing on al-Qaeda. Why are we here?"

"Well, the ones responsible for the September 11 attacks are not the only threat in the world," he reminded. "I don't know if you recall the 2005 London bombings."

I nodded vaguely. _Those happened here too? _

"Terrorism was fully brought to Britain's attention at that point, and we've been keeping check in case of future exploits. As of January 2009, the British government has been detecting signs of another terrorist. One who _sponsors_ crimes as far as we can tell. That is where England requested 'expertise' from America who transferred you Traherne and six other agents under my direction. It's not that England couldn't handle the problem on her own, but I recommended that the US get involved as the same terrorist we discovered had cells in the States too." He glanced between Jason and Robyn. "Though I didn't inform you of this until six months later, I had to make certain. I apologize."

"Wait wait wait. Not only do I work for the CIA, I also chase people with bombs and guns and knives for a living? That's my cup of tea. Can't you see I'm _thrilled_?" I joked sardonically.

"Are you taking this as a joke?"

"Why, are you serious?"

"Traherne."

"All right, all right." I raised my hands in surrender. "Continue with your lesson."

"First, tell me what you learned so far."

"But that's not fair!"

"Traherne."

"You just told me a minute ago!"

"Agent Traherne."

"And do I have to tell you word for word?"

Mycroft slammed his palms onto the table and shot up from his seat, the intensity of the hit jostling the table and the drinks. "ALEXANDRIA FAYE TRAHERNE, WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME?"

I shrank into my chair and gulped, unsure of either to burst into tears for being treated like a rebellious child or to cackle hysterically for hearing my full name be used by _him_ of all people. This was definitely Mycroft Holmes going OOC. Jason gave me the impression of an older brother weary of his younger sister's problematic tactics. Robyn looked like she almost peed in her pants.

Mycroft huffed, regaining composure. "I'm _still _dealing with a child."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," I said in a subdued voice with downcast eyes, but I was mocking his authority. If Mycroft picked up on this, he didn't show it, continuing with the discussion.

"Back to the subject, not only has your target sponsored the London bombings, he has also dealt with another crime lord recently exposed in a police scandal as of this past December. Of which you generously offered your assistance to a certain young detective sergeant."

"Am I in trouble for that too?"

"I didn't say that was the focus."

"Then what is?"

"A man. A certain…_powerful_ man."

I sent Mycroft a bored face. "Him and every other crook in the world. I need more description than that—no, wait. Is it the Kray twins resurrected?"

"That was last year," Robyn said to no one in particular.

"Are you serious?"

"For crying out loud, Alex!" Jason interjected, not caring for Mycroft's reaction. "Do you really not remember who we're dealing with? This is Moriarty we're talking about!"

…

…_No. Not _that_ name too. _"…Moriarty…as in Jim Moriarty."

Jason threw his hands up in exasperation. "Yes, Jim Moriarty! The one and only."

I collapsed back into my chair, letting the oh-too-familiar-name sink in. "Oh, crud."

Not only did I chase people with sick minds, I stalked _him_, Jim Moriarty, of all bad guys.

Of course, there was would be the consulting criminal. How could I forget? Where there was Sherlock Holmes, so was Moriarty, the ultimate match for the sleuth detective. And just as the psychopath said, 'Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.' How hauntingly true those words rang in my mind. My stomach churned, and I wished with all my might that I would never have to run into Moriarty in this lifetime, no matter what my job description demanded. But if I was basically play 'I Spy' on him, chances of getting any form of contact were raised to the ceiling.

I thought of my 'stunt' at Aldersgate Street, the first night I spent in London. Was Moriarty responsible for that 'stunt'? Did he do something to me before I gained consciousness? Horror curled into my chest.

"Hang on," I started, my mind still trying to grasp the concept of Moriarty alone, "you mean I got captured by…_him? Moriarty. _Then he just let me be on my way?"

"And despite that entire ordeal, you still retain knowledge of the man," the politician mused.

I stalled. How was I supposed to respond to Mycroft? What could I say without messing things up terribly? "I don't actually remember per se seeing or running into…_Moriarty_." The name sounded like a prophecy of doom on those who uttered the very word. I shuddered. "But I sorta—kinda know who he is…what he does." It wasn't convincing, but that was the best way I could answer on the spot. Was this how every intruding but good-conscious time-traveler felt like every time he messed with history? I could see why some didn't precisely enjoy it.

Jason suddenly snarled as if unable to contain his frustration. He surged to his feet, thrusting his chair back. "This is stupid."

"Agent Colles—" Mycroft tried to calm the now-agitated man but only to be interrupted.

"_This is ridiculous, sir! _How can she not remember me or Robyn, yet she knows you _and _the mission? Now she's familiar with our target? And what's the point of all this? What's in it for you? You can just send her back."

"You fail to see why you're here, Agent Colles?" Mycroft asked coolly. "Whether or not you and the team accept Traherne's condition is of little consequence to me, but as head of this group, it is your responsibility to concern in your teammates' wellbeing. And her condition has very much to do with your mission as well. Unless you think you fall short of my expectations."

Jason took his time before he answered to avoid sounding disrespectful. "No, sir," he said with gritted teeth, returning to his place next to the older man.

"On that case," Mycroft turned his steely eyes to me, sending chills down my spine, "I need to ask her a few questions. Privately."

"I thought this concerned me," Jason grounded out softly as he could muster.

Mycroft held a hand, silencing the other. "Willard."

The butler who had escorted us earlier strode in and waited at the entrance of the dining room from the connected kitchen.

"Take Colles and Lawrence to the library, and then summon them back when I'm finished."

Willard bowed and gestured to the hallway. "This way, please," he said to Robyn and Jason who rose from their places and moved to where the butler pointed. Jason sent me an inscrutable expression, And Robyn had a look that said 'You are _so _busted.'

While I was temporarily glad that those two were out of my hair, being alone with Mycroft was…mind-boggling. My heart just about plummeted to the bottom of my chest, the feeling not unlike going to the school administrator's office for inconspicuous reasons. I'd never been in big trouble in high school, but with the British government…that was a new feeling.

As soon as Mycroft and I were left alone, I cleared my throat and cringed at the chair's squeak when I shifted. "Okay, when you…deduced me, why didn't you go straight to recognition? Because infatuation...that's messed up."

He ignored me, striding back to the mini bar to pour himself another refill. "I've read the medical reports," he spoke as he idly examined his drink. "You've had no head trauma, yet the papers say you have amnesia. Selective amnesia to be specific. Not only have you lost some memories, you've also gained…new information."

"Yes, I've gone over that, Myc—I mean, sir." I mentally slapped myself for the slip. "Problem is that those two don't really believe me. Yet…you do. Do you?"

"Depends on what you know."

"…Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal."

"Yes."

"You."

"Yes."

Another name popped in my head, but I was afraid of the answer. Did the other 'Alex' know the person? Deciding to ease any tension and eliminate any following confusion, I said, "Just to clarify, you think I've gained information. But only through my 'amnesia,' correct?"

He said nothing.

Taking that as a discouraging 'yes', I braced myself. "Okay. How about Sherlock, your brother?" _There, I said his name. _

Mycroft finished the last of the alcohol and set the glass on the table. He was silent for two minutes as if purposely messing with my discomfort and at the same time, trying to figure me out, what I was saying. "Very few in my workplace, let alone foreign agencies, know who he really is," he said in a low voice.

I assumed that Robyn and Jason didn't know of Sherlock either. I admonished myself silly. Of course, one didn't routinely know of his boss's personal life unless he was closely acquainted or trusted. Again, this was Mycroft, the secretly overprotective sibling whose ways of strange "kindness" were thought as various methods of torture by a peeved younger brother. As Sherlock stated before, Mycroft seemed to take pleasure in dabbling with people's private business…if they involved Sherlock.

I mouthed an 'oh' again. "Is that a bad thing?"

He clasped his gnarly hands together and leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes piercing me through. "The question is, will you keep silent?"

Was he threatening me? It was as if I had learned of his greatest secret and promised to blackmail him with that little fact. One irrelevant fact in my opinion. Because what harm could be done if the government knew that their greatest asset had an equally smart younger brother? I thought the worst done was offer Sherlock a similar position to Mycroft's which the consulting detective would undoubtedly decline. It wasn't like he was trying to _hide_ Sherlock from existence, and he had the ability and means to do it.

I watched the man's eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation. I toyed with the idea of messing with Mycroft about his younger brother, but one glance at him was enough to kill the thought. _Dang it. Joy killer. _

"Yes," I answered monotonously after an eternity of silence. Besides, it wasn't like I was going to even bother with Sherlock.

Wrong.

"I think otherwise," Mycroft replied.

Just as if he'd read my mind.

I snorted. Being decked by an extraordinarily brilliant man (and one that was my boss) grew on me too quickly. "You would. But if you're concerned about me blabbing to my…team about your brother, don't. I don't just tell people that I have OCD or that I secretly watch Japanese animes." I paused and realized my contradicting statement. "Just because I told you my secrets, that doesn't count. I said that for sake of illustration."

Mycroft's eyes twitched in half-amusement, half-exasperation, reminding me of a meme of the Holmes brother seething with a caption above him that read, 'I'm killing you inside my mind.' Yep, it was that face. "And because of your word, I can leave that issue to your judgment." His tone was sarcastic.

"But I'm serious," I whined.

"My brother aside, what else is on your mind?"

I pursed my lips. Time to put my knowledge of _Sherlock_ to work. Looking for the consulting detective wasn't the only problem; I had to be careful of what I said next. For the delicacy of plot continuity hung in the balance of the fiction world…_ooh, that sounded scary. Yeah, right. _

"Um, the airplane. The bombed airplane, oh what was it called?" I snapped my fingers when the name hit. Of course, the answer was waving right in front of me. I fingered the file at the bottom of the stack and read the title. "'The Coventry Conundrum.' "Is that still running?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Mycroft answered, looking somewhat pleased with my memory of one of the operatives.

So this was pre-"Scandal" time. Now I was getting somewhere. So I decided to try one episode back. "Missile plans…the Bruce…something plans. Uh, Andrew West."

Mycroft made sure that I had hit a touchy subject. "The Bruce-Partington Plans. I definitely would keep quiet about those plans since they're only for British government ears. My warning still stands."

I cringed. _Maybe I should write an instruction manual titled 'What to Do and What Not to Do in Front of a Holmes.'_ "So nothing wrong happened?"

"Is there something that I ought to know?"

"No no," I hastily replied. "Just wondering if that went haywire. So…no worries."

Thankfully before "The Great Game." I didn't want to miss that episode for certain; watching the cliffhanger at the Pool scene villain had ensured my newfound reverence for the show and established my place in joining the crazed Sherlockian fandom._ Thank you, Moffat! _With a stimulated impatience, I took a drastic leap to "A Study in Pink," the first episode where Sherlock and John had first met.

"Going back to your brother," I stepped on this topic on metaphorical tip-toes, bottling up my fangirling anticipation, "does he…is he rooming with anyone right now?"

Mycroft's face was screaming '_Stalker_!' I didn't blame him either. "How much do you truly know about Sherlock?"

"Maybe…enough," I answered casually...and distantly. "I know what he does, but who can really grasp how the guy thinks? Besides you. You're his brother." I frowned when he didn't respond right away. "So does he a flat mate now?"

His eyes narrowed. "He's just moved into a new one, but I believe he is looking for a share. I can obviously pay for the other half, but I want him to do things on his own."

I scoffed. "Of course. Drug rehabilitation, is it?"

"Don't push it, Traherne."

"Yes, sir," I shrank back. _Was that a yes or no to Sherlock's treatment?_ "But believe me. I promise I won't mention your family to anyone else. I cross my heart, I hope to die, stick a million—"

"Agent Traherne," he repeated tiredly.

"Yes, sir, I'll shut up now, sir." I sank lower into my chair.

Mycroft continued. "What of James Moriarty?"

"Consulting criminal. The master of his international criminal web." I stopped there.

If the present time was before "A Study in Pink," who knew how much Mycroft knew of Moriarty at this point. Sherlock wouldn't find out until after the cabbie, but I hadn't counted on the idea that Mycroft was aware already. (Thank you, Moffat, for _conveniently_ leaving numerous plot holes.*) "Is that how much I'm supposed to know? Or is there more?"

"That is enough," Mycroft nodded but held a skeptical glint in his eye. I hoped I wasn't making any signs of withholding more than I said I knew. "We have identification but not enough background information. His clients refuse to reveal anything, or they simply cannot describe him. And even tracing back to the source provides with little evidence pointing to a James Moriarty. If he does exist. He is Ireland's own mystery man."

"No alternate identity? Alias?"

"We're currently checking a few parties," he said. "But I believe you stumbled upon our man…three nights ago."

I quirked an eyebrow. "If you're asking for what he looked like or what he did to me, I don't remember. I woke up to headlights, not his face profile. Sorry to disappoint. As if I can ask him to take a picture with me." _But if not as Moriarty, then as his cover Richard Brooke._ Then it dawned on me. "Hang on, you _don't_ have a profile picture of him? I thought you would at this point."

"That was the purpose of the operation: find information—anything on him. Just to establish remaining doubts."

"But then I blundered," I finished.

"Yes, you did, Traherne," he said. "And for that, your position is in question."

Disappointment seeped in, and any smidgen of hope went down the drain. All because I made a mistake that I hadn't been aware of, a mistake I had unconsciously made in the literal sense. That wasn't fair at all. I moved to object, but arguing with Mycroft was head-butting with the British government and uselessly shaking my fist at whatever omniscient power that had landed me in this alternate-world situation. I hated that Mycroft alone restricted my decisions and involved himself in my thought process.

So I settled to asking a question. Neutral enough. "And what happens if I lose my position?"

"You will be deported back to America at the end of the month," he replied. "And judging by your inquisitiveness, the information you've just given me, and your reaction to the mention of deportation, I believe you don't want that to happen."

"I hate it when you do that."

"I'm just stating the facts."

"Well, people don't like it if it's too nosy."

"Yet my _nosiness _as you call it doesn't surprise you as much. The CIA team still finds it unnerving. You used to as well. What changed that?"

Once again, I was under his microscopic scrutiny, those icy blue-green eyes boring into my soul… _Ugh, not a great picture to think about. _

"You think there's more?" I nervously tittered. _And why am I scared?_

"More than you say you do," Mycroft said.

I gulped. I realized he knew…

"But for now, I'll keep this conversation on hold. There's more I would like to hear in the near future. And you _will_ talk."

Mycroft then summoned for Jason and Robyn and ordered his butler to bring more water, having the two CIA agents take their former seats.

"As of today, I will postpone Traherne's leave until further notice," he announced, paying no heed to our stunned expressions. "I also will not put this on your record. In fact, this will only be between me and the CIA involved here. I will explain details later."

Robyn and Jason gaped at Mycroft for the dismissed penalty as if his random act of mercy was extremely uncharacteristic. Maybe, it was because one: government-related missions especially top-secret ones weren't tasks to be dealt with carelessness. I may not know that as law, but I knew it was a given. Two: this was Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful government official in England. And he didn't pass as a community-friendly type of man.

Robyn was the first to recover. "So what are we to do now, sir?" she asked, having processed the news. "Where does that leave me and Jason? And the team?"

"Nothing you do will bring Traherne's memories back," he said. "But give her time, and be patient. In the meantime, you and Jason will be watching her under surveillance. She will live under her current alias, and she will do nothing with future missions or cases. Make sure that she doesn't. Absolutely nothing."

"You mean…she's _not_ being deported back home," Jason clarified, his tone doubtful. "I thought you made it clear that 'any failure ended in permanent leave.'" He sounded proud of memorizing that last bit.

"She's made an exception, Colles."

"Why? Did she say something?"

When Willard returned with a tray of three glasses of water, Mycroft thanked his butler and motioned for us to take one each. "There's certain things she's remembered, and I don't trust her to keep completely silent." He eyed me meaningfully.

"But—thanks a lot," I retorted, crossing my arms indignantly.

"Sending her back is a risk I'm not willing to take. As mentioned before, she has also acquired new information, more than I would like and more than she ought to know. Moriarty has captured her before, and though I doubt he will take interest in her again, I'm certain he knows everything of her. I don't want him to get his hands on her lest he discovers of her...condition. So I'd rather have her remain in England under my watch than be hunted down by Moriarty's men in America, out of our reach."

The room remained silent, encouraging Mycroft to continue. "Speaking of condition, I am rather intrigued with her."

A condition Robyn and Jason called selective amnesia. A condition Mycroft called a new intriguing puzzle to solve. A condition I called fandom knowledge. And somewhere along the way, nothing good would come out of that.

* * *

**Spoilers for the next chapter: A DI, a date, and danger...**

**So...R&R please. Thanks. **


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